“Not merely a set of translations of one poem, Le Ton beau de Marot is an autobiographical essay, a love letter to the French language, a series of musings on life, loss, and death, a sweet bouquet of stirring poetry—but most of all, it celebrates the limitless creativity fired by a passion for the music of words.”
In the early 1980s, Hofstadter wrote a meandering, pondering, puzzling column for the Scientific American; this is it, along with his commentary on each article and a few extra essays and/or speeches.
Wikipedia has a fine description of this book, but it’s quite involved. GEB is a book about how consciousness arose from very much non-conscious stuff like mud and rocks. A crude but fairly accurate summary, I think. This book is awesome fun.
“This book is an exploration of the human mind and soul, ranging from early philosophical and fictional musings on a subject that could seemingly only be examined in the realm of thought, to works from the 20th century where the nature of the self became a viable topic for scientific study.”
(Also, there’s space robot sci-fi.)
It has been my observation, culled over years and years of eliciting “Ma Mignonne” translations from relatives, friends, colleagues, and students, that those people who do the most imaginative, liveliest, and most polished jobs are invariably those with the best senses of humor. They are people who love to play with ideas, juggle words, take risks, laugh at themselves, be silly, let themselves go. I suppose it suggests that having a sense of humor is tightly bound up with a propensity for intellectual risk-taking.
We had seen posters all over the city advertising an exhibit of strumenti di tortura (“instruments of torture”), and after weighing our heavily mixed feelings, finally decided to go see it. As we expected, it was very, very grim. There were spiked iron balls on chains, used to bash people to a pulp; there were large wheels upon which victims were fastened and stretched till their bones cracked apart; there were cages in which people were suspended in the air without water or food for days or weeks, until they died; there were tightenable metallic bodysuits that had huge spikes facing inwards; there were instruments for removing fingernails, for peeling off a live human’s layers of skin, for pulling organs out of abdomens; and on and on and on, ad nauseam. What struck Carol and me most of all, though, was that without any exception, all these demoniacal devices had been concocted in the name of God by the Catholic church, and they were used systematically by the clergy in order to keep people in line.
There is certainly no sharp black-and-white crossover line, however–no magic moment at which meaning suddenly attaches to a symbol that up until then had been totally empty. Rather, over a period of days, weeks, months, or years, symbols gradually acquire layers of meaning, like boats accumulating layers of barnacles.
Basically, the direction in which I am moving is toward the conclusion that there is not a simple one-to-one correspondence between human souls and human brains, but that instead each human soul is a distributed entity that is, of course, concentrated most intensely in one particular brain but that is also present in a diluted or partial manner in many other brains, and the degree of presence of A’s soul in B’s brain, not surprisingly, is a direct function of the depth of shared history and mutual caring between A and B.
Words are translatable among cultures to the extent that the worlds inhabited by their host languages are the same–and that extent is very high for many modern languages.
And yet, each language inhabits a world slightly different from all other languages, and so it has certain special terms whose meanings cannot be expressed concisely in other languages. They can be explained, but there is nothing like a terse corresponding expression.
To avoid the ironic fate of drowning in an ocean of your own micro-variants, you have to be courageous enough to part forever with lovely ideas that only a few minutes earlier you were terribly proud of.
(He was writing of translation, but it seems applicable to creative works in general.)